Author's Note: Okay, this chapter really kinda sucks, and it's short and has brief POVs… but it's a chapter… right? Sorry I've kept you waiting so long. I'll try not to do it again O.o No acknowledgements this time around... sorry; next time.

CHAPTER TWELVE: RAPID HOPE LOSS

Sleep was starting to look more and more appealing with every passing second. They were striving to keep him awake and 'comfortable', he knew, but in the back of his mind, he knew only one thing… they were failing.

He was failing.

"I can't do this much longer…"

He only realised he'd said it aloud when Sam hovered over him, looking him in the eyes and saying with as much compassion as she could manage, "We know, Ray… just keep it up, okay? You're doin' great."

Liar, he said on the inside, reluctant to put her down any further. Instead, the old Ray Barnett façade kicked in as best it could, and he nodded his head groggily, taking in as deep a breath as he could, but steadily so he didn't over-exert himself. It bothered him, not being able to move very much; he was normally a very active person, but now he neither had the energy or 'permission' to do anything about it, and so, he pretty much just lay there.

He was somewhat – and that was being generous – relieved that they hadn't had to change the bandage in… how long had it been? He was wearing a watch, but again, lacked the energy to lift his arm and check it. It would do him little good anyway; he couldn't really remember how long ago it had been, and when they had last done it. He sighed lightly. As he lay there, he let his eyes fix on the ceiling, and then suddenly recalled that he had been counting the tiles.

Dammit.

He'd lost count. Frowning very slightly, and realising there was very little else he could do, he resigned himself to starting again. It would help to keep him awake, if nothing else, he supposed. Besides, he was determined to tell Sam just how many there were when they got out of here.

As Ray's concentration apparently fixed on the ceiling – and no doubt the tiles covering it – Sam looked to Abby across the bed. Abby looked right back, unsure of what to do. She had already tried 'reasoning' with Atkin, and that had failed miserably. In fact, her face was still a little sore from that attempt. Looking down at Ray, and then back to Sam, she lifted and dropped one shoulder; not in defeat, but at a loss. Without leaving the room, there was very little they could do apart from try to keep him comfortable, and Abby had a feeling they weren't doing very well on that front right now either. Without treatment, there was very little that would make Ray comfortable.

That, in turn, both upset and angered Abby. It took a lot of her self control in that moment to resist taking up the nearest heavy object and smashing it over Atkin's head. But she had no doubt she would fail in the attempt, and therefore, it would be a fruitless endeavour. Sighing, she checked Ray's vitals, and then the dressing on his wound. While she would not give either the title of 'fine', she was helpless to improve them in any way, without items kept beyond Exam Three. Frustration settled in once again, and she knew she had to sit… sitting down would – hopefully – help her to keep calm. Or calmer, at least…

Looking behind her, she saw a stool, and calmly set it down beside the bed, where she was in good view of everything: Ray's wound, his face, the monitor, and the IV.

Just because there's wasn't much she could do, that didn't mean she couldn't do the best with what she had.

While he had nothing against the nurse – Luka had called her Chuny – personally, he couldn't help but feel anger towards her. She was keeping him from leaving the room, which was about as interesting as his sneaker's heel at that moment. Perhaps even less so. He had wandered around, restlessly, countless times, with the nurse watching him. Her presence didn't help. The fact that his mother hadn't come to see him yet made him uncomfortable… there was something Luka wasn't telling him. Something big.

There was an unwanted soda sitting on the table, and though he had taken a sip initially – more for show than anything – it was far from the top of his priority list. He wondered if Chuny would be able to stop him before he'd lunged out the door. He toyed with the idea for a time, eyeing it calmly every now and again, though the ease with which he did so was falsified. The nurse looked to him.

"You hungry?" she asked him, for what had to be the fifth time since Alex had arrived. The child looked to her, paused, and then shook his head in a firm motion. Chuny nodded slowly, and her own eyes turned to the door. Alex had heard the noises outside, especially the gunshot. It had terrified him, and his basic instincts had almost driven him under a table in fear, but he'd managed to simply draw himself up into the chair he'd been sitting in, until he was absolutely sure he wasn't in any danger.

But that didn't mean his mother, or Luka, wasn't… what if they were hurt?

What if…

Alex sharply cut off his thought, and went back to his chair, sitting in it, and drawing his knees up, his arms hugging around them for a time. He peered over the tops of them, staring at the door, as if commanding someone to come through and tell them what was going on.

He had a feeling it wouldn't work, but he could still try.

Pulling his eyes away from the door to the lounge, he looked down into his mug. It was empty. When he had drank it all, he didn't know, but that was far from important. He set it down, next to the cold, abandoned coffee that someone had left there earlier, his eyes meeting Jerry's briefly. He sighed, and tried to offer a smile to the receptionist, but failed, though Jerry did offer him a brief nod in acknowledgement. Luka leaned back against the desk behind him, more or less certain that he wasn't sitting against anything important. The board was up, but if he wasn't careful, he'd probably hit his head on it. The charts sat to his left, unmoving for the most part. Neela, Morris and some of the medical students were tending to minor cases that were still in the area, but other than that, Luka had a feeling they wouldn't be seen to for a while.

So much for improving our waiting time, he thought idly, staring at the police and security as they moved around, seemingly with purpose and intent. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, and that bothered him somewhat. He had been troubled by their 'suggestions', even though Weaver had denied them permission… if she had any influence here at all… which he doubted. If they were going to go through with anything, they wouldn't run it by the doctors first. Their main goal was getting Atkin, Luka knew. He had never expected anything different.

For some reason, part of him wanted to head back to the lounge, and tell Alex everything… but he resisted. Whether or not the urge had sprung from the desire to simply do something, he didn't know, but he couldn't go through with it. How could he tell a ten-year-old boy that his mother was trapped with a madman wielding a gun – if Atkin was indeed mad, which seemed to be the case from what he'd heard – and could quite possibly be injured? He couldn't do that… he refused to.

When Neela appeared beside him, he acknowledged her with a gaze, and realised she was offering him a chart, probably for his signature. He took it, without even really thinking about it, and listened as she rattled off her treatment and diagnosis. Their options for the former were limited, given their restrictions within the ER. They had to work with what they had, which meant that many cases were waiting as a result. He nodded as the resident informed him of symptoms and timing and the like, and then, after a muttered confirmation, signed the chart, handing it back to her, and turning the pen over and over in his hand for a while, if only for something to fill his hands. Neela paused and waited for a while, as if expecting someone to explain everything to her, but when Weaver glanced in her direction, she took the hint, and shuffled off again. Whether or not she took another chart, Luka did not notice, his eyes meeting Weaver's briefly. He saw in them the desire to demand answers and action; a desire that was no doubt mirrored in his own… not to mention Lewis and Carter's.

Just be okay, Sam… please be okay.

Steve Atkin moved away from the window that he had recently put a hole in, and looked back to the three members of staff in the room with him. Though they could not see it, Steve's breathing was somewhat increased in speed, and perspiration beaded his brow. If his pride and determination weren't holding him back, he would ask what these signs meant, but he had a fairly good idea himself… it felt like anxiety. But that couldn't be right… he was wrong. It was just the flurry of action that was making him feel this way. That was all.

He noticed Lockhart had sat down, almost as if she were resigning herself to the fact that she wasn't leaving this room until he said so. Taggart was still standing, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her head bowed slightly as if thinking. And Barnett was looking up at the ceiling… not that he had expected much from the young man otherwise. He was injured after all; his movement was limited.

Steve began to pace; slow but definite traces across the room and back again, never taking his attention fully from the hostages, wounded or otherwise. It wouldn't do to let his guard slip. Not when things were moving along at such a pace.

But where were they going? Where would they lead? What would happen to him?

In the back of his mind, a small question, in a weak voice kept asking, 'why have you done this?'… he had to ignore it. It was a voice of doubt, trying to weaken his resolve. It wasn't his voice, and therefore, couldn't be trusted. He shut it out, though he still felt it there, and every now and again, it would sound faintly, though he was the only one to hear it. He did not react externally; showed no sign of doubt or weakness, or anxiety or fatigue. Every time he began to have any sort of reservation regarding his actions, he called up images of his wife, and her last moments. They were strong, and painful, and helped to conjure up certainty in him… he had to do this. He had to keep going.

But the voice remained. It kept asking him where he would go from here; how he would survive; what he would do now… how he would really feel if that young man died. It kept telling him that what he was doing was wrong, and that he had to give up.

The voice was filled with defeat.

To Be Continued…